


neutral zone stickhandling

by achilleees



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The splint around Kent’s leg is a feat of engineering, a hulking behemoth of black plastic and Velcro, but the crutches are sleek and slim.</p><p> </p><p>an alternate take on the March of Jack's senior year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	neutral zone stickhandling

**Author's Note:**

> jack/parse is my otp a zillion times over. i can't help but want a happy ending for them, but since that's not happening, i've taken it upon myself to write my own take on things.
> 
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://achilleees.tumblr.com/). esp come give me jack/parse prompts!! i would write so much more if i only had the ideas for it.
> 
> enjoy!

Shitty catches him at the door.

“Dude,” he says. “You’re not thinking about going to –”

“Yeah,” Jack says. He hasn’t packed anything – hasn’t got anything with him except his wallet and his cell phone, not even a phone charger. Does it count as being shortsighted if he knows full well he’s doing it?

“Bro,” Shitty says. “ _Bro_.”

“I have to,” Jack says. “I…”

Shitty raises both hands. “Fuck, man, I get it. You’ve got history, but there’s still, uh, a connection under it. But… you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Jack looks to the door. “You going to get to the point, or…?”

“I’ma let you go,” Shitty says. “But you gotta promise me something.”

Jack waits.

“You can’t make this about you.”

Jack’s shoulders hunch up so fast he nearly clips himself in the jaw.

Shitty groans. “Aw, I didn’t mean it like that. Just, you know your whole relationship revolves around you. Always has. And not in a selfish way! Not like he’s some neglected, uh – Just, you know, he’s always made it about you. He instigates, he pushes, he fights – but it’s always about you.”

Jack nods, jerkily.

“But this time, that’s not gonna work,” Shitty says. “If you go, it can’t be about you, or your guilt, or your issues, or your feelings. You can’t lay that one on him. It’s not fair.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I mean…” He cards his fingers through his hair.

“Go,” Shitty says. “I’m all for it. Just… If the point of going is to make yourself feel better, it’s not good enough. He’s got enough on his shoulders without taking your load also.”

Jack nods again. “Thanks,” he says.

Shitty watches him as he leaves.

Jack makes it about three feet out the door when Shitty yanks it open, Bitty peering out from behind him. “Wait, Jack!”

“Crisse,” Jack says, spinning, starting to get a little angry.

“No, look.” Shitty holds out Bitty’s phone. “You should see –”

Jack takes it. “Oh.”

Nick Angelis @nickangelis  
2:23pm  
_Spotted: Kent Parson boarding flight to Boston. Likely headed to Dr. Whittemore at MGH, knee surgeon, known for surgery on @JoshReed._

The accompanying picture makes Jack’s stomach twist.

 

 

Jack slides down, nearly wedging himself in the footwell behind the driver’s seat, as a family of four passes him in the parking garage. The mom has a fanny-pack. Probably not paparazzi, then. Still.

He peeks up through the window, eagle-eyed, searching the crowd for –

Kent looks like he walked straight out of that picture from Angelis’ tweet. Sunglasses and a baseball cap, with his hood drawn up – hiding him and exposing him at the same time, obscuring his features but drawing the eye. If he wanted to blend in, he’s doing a terrible job of it.

The brim of his hat is forward. Jack’s getting a bit more of an idea what he’s working with here.

The splint around Kent’s leg is a feat of engineering, a hulking behemoth of black plastic and Velcro, but the crutches are sleek and slim.

Jack drops his hand as it drifts to the door handle. Kent clearly doesn’t need help – all he has is the travel duffel that Nursey’s carrying. Not staying in the area for long, then.

“He’s a headcase, is all I’m saying,” he can hear Kent saying through the open window.

“No one’s arguing that,” Nursey says.

“The fuck, though, he could have at least come himself, if –” Kent juggles the crutches under one arm to free his hand to open the front door. His eyebrows raise when he sees Jack in the backseat.

“Though you might not want any more press,” Jack says.

Kent adjusts the seat, moving it as far back as he can to make room for his splint. He knocks back the hood of his sweatshirt and turns around his cap, like a compulsion. “What happened to the Beamer?” he says.

Jack shrugs. He thought about that, but Nursey’s Cadillac is roomier, more space for Kent’s leg, and it has tinted windows so dark they’re nearly black. “Seemed more your style.”

Kent snorts and climbs in. “I called a car, you know. I was going to go to a hotel –”

“Which one? We’ll take you.”

“Dunno,” Kent says, after a beat. “Was gonna ask the driver. Shit, whatever, dude.” He scowls, and Jack blinks, unsettled. If he saw Kent on the street like this, he doesn’t think he would recognize him. Parse never loses his cool.

“Boston Harbor’s supposed to be nice,” Nursey says, getting in the driver’s seat. He tosses the whiteboard into the back, and it lands in Jack’s lap. “The Four Seasons. There’s the Omni Parker downtown, if you don’t mind the tourists.”

Jack looks down at it. There’s still smudges of Bitty’s grocery list on it, from being so hastily wiped off when Bitty took it off the fridge, so it reads: _Alm **KENNY P** conut._

It probably wasn’t subtle enough, but he figured there wasn’t much point in obscuring who Nursey was there to pick up once Kent showed up himself.

“Yeah,” Kent says.

Nursey turns on the car. He plugs the address to the Haus into the GPS.

Kent doesn’t say anything against it.

 

 

“Absolutely fucking not,” Kent says.

Jack shrugs.

Kent stuffs his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack says.

“ _No_ ,” Kent says.

“I’m gonna…” Nursey hefts up Kent’s bag and crosses the lawn to the Haus, boots squelching in the wet grass.

The Boston winter was brutal, worse than anything Jack ever experienced in Montreal. It’s just starting to thaw, halfway through March, and the entire lawn is a lake of dirty slush and mud. Very slippery slush and mud. Hard to manage on crutches.

“It’s your call,” Jack says.

Kent looks down at his splint, then back up at the lawn, wrinkling his nose. He rubs his temples. “Fucking fine, but we're never speaking of this again.”

“Nurse!” Jack says.

Nursey turns his head and then comes back at Jack’s wave.

Kent hands him both his crutches. “This never happened,” he growls to Jack, and holds his arms out.

“Understood,” Jack says, and he ducks down and catches Kent’s weight, hoisting him into his arms in a bridal carry. He's so light, all compact muscle.

“You fucker,” Kent grumbles. He graciously waits to kick Jack in the jaw until they’re on the dry porch.

Jack can’t help but grin. For just a moment, he’s sure Kent is smiling back.

 

 

Parse has his faceoff glare on, stony gaze and set jaw. He’s kind of an idiot, because no one here is skating up to the circle.

When he walks in, unsteady on his crutches since he insisted on opening the door for himself, Ransom and Holster look over from the couch. “Parse, my man,” Ransom says.

“Totally sucks about your knee,” Holster says.

“Great chance for the team to see if they can get on without you.”

“But shit, they’re gonna have to push to make the playoffs.”

“Way the Ducks are playing –”

“And the Sharks –”

“Yeah, but they’ll flame out in the first round same way they always do –”

“Ha, don’t let Chowder hear that.”

“Anyway, bro –”

“Bet you’ve trained your boys up, but there’s no replacing a top line winger like –”

“D-men’ll have to cover for him.”

“Svensson’s been playing on another level, anyway.”

“I call Yoshi.”

“Fuckin’ Peach all the way.”

“Who you want, Parse?”

Parse looks sincerely surprised to find himself ensconced between them on the couch, a plate of chocolate croissants in his lap courtesy of Bitty and a Gamecube controller in his hands.

Those two, crisse. Jack’s just glad he’s never done anything to piss them off, because they make teamwork a verb.

 

 

Bitty pulls out all the stops with dinner. There are _courses_. Jack suspects it’s half so Kent won’t need to leave the Haus – Shitty and Dex are constructing some sort of rock pathway between the porch and the street, to give Kent’s crutches some friction, but it’s only half done.

Probably better that way. Kent’s shoulders have been gradually loosening up the longer he’s been here, but Jack just knows they’ll snap back up as soon as he has to venture outside and face the world again.

Kind of the same way they tighten when he and Jack are alone in a room for the first time.

Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Bed’s all yours,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Parse snorts. “Sure, if you wanna get chlamydia. I don’t know if it can transfer through skin contact, but I wouldn’t risk it.”

Jack looks to the bed. It’s not that big. There’s no way they’d be able to share it without touching. He can't help but remember, quite vividly, that Kent prefers to be the big spoon.

“I’ll behave, I promise,” Parse says, and there’s a note of definite bitterness in his voice.

Likely he’s remembering the last time he tried to touch Jack, the way Jack had pushed him away.

"I know," Jack says.

Normally Kent sleeps curled up on his side, but the cast makes it so he has to lie on his back, taking up more space than someone his size should. Par for the course, really.

Jack’s never been particularly observant, so as nostalgic as he’s feeling, he can’t remember if Kent always smelled like this spicy mix of cologne and aftershave. He doesn't think so.

It makes him feel lonely. Which is dumb, because Kent is _right there_. But no one ever accused Jack of being rational, so.

 

 

The next morning, Jack wakes up both hot and blanket-less, paradoxically. He feels around in a sleepy fog, and his hand finds the warm body behind him that is the cause of these problems, because Kent both stole all the blankets and puts off heat like a furnace.

"Jerk," Jack says, and he accidentally on purpose knees Kent in the shoulder while he's climbing over him to get out of bed.

Kent kicks him with his booted foot - "Ow!" - and then rolls over, curling up in the warm spot Jack left behind with a happy sigh.

Jack gets dressed for his run and then pauses at the door, looking back in at the lump under the covers with a weird, tight feeling in his chest. He can't tell if it’s anxiety or - something else. He's not sure which would be worse.

 

 

"So I'm like, on my hands and knees, arching my back, and the whole team is cracking up because I'm an enormous dumbfuck and I walked straight into it -"

Bull in the Heather cuts off abruptly as Jack pulls out his earbuds, catching the tail end of the story coming from the kitchen. He pokes his head in.

"Oh, lord," Bitty says, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes with the hem of his sweater. "That is just - oh, hey Jack!" He smiles at him, midway through frosting some cinnamon buns - he just made them last week, so this must be a special request. Kent always did like cinnamon.

Kent tosses a nod over his shoulder, but doesn't cut off from his story, "And the worst part is, two days later the video goes viral on YouTube and my phone's blowing up with chirps. I'd almost rather it was a prank."

Bitty has to put down the pastry bag of icing, his hands shaking with his laughter. "I should have known it was something like that."

"I swear, when I hear that riff I get PTSD flashbacks." Kent's smile is rueful, but there's an ease to it that surprises Jack. He should have known - Bitty could befriend a rabid dog, no way Parse ever stood a chance.

"Oh, I'm sure," Bitty says. "Why, I'm not even famous and I still get hot all over when someone mentions the icing incident."

"Icing gets you hot all over?" Kent says, swiping his thumb through the droplet of icing slowly pooling on the counter from the tip of the baggie. "Puts the baking thing in a new light." He smirks at Bitty - that slow, crooked smirk, eyes slanting - as he sucks his thumb into his mouth with an obscene noise.

Jack can't blame Bitty for staring. He shakes it off quick enough, anyway, smacking at Kent, so his cap nearly goes flying. "Oh, behave. You know I meant my face getting hot - and Smirnoff Ice, not that kind of icing!"

The tips of Kent's canines flash with his smile, quick and devilish, and when Bitty shakes his head and appeals to Jack, "He's a menace, Jack," Jack can only nod and head upstairs to take a shower.

They ain't seen nothing yet, but they'll figure out soon enough.

 

 

Bitty zips up his poofy purple jacket and shoots Jack a meaningful look.

Jack shrugs.

Bitty’s eyebrow twitches.

Jack shakes his head.

“Ask him!” Bitty whispers.

“Ask him what?” Jack says.

“Kent, we’re going to grab dinner at Vandy,” Bitty says. “Should we bring you back something?”

Parse looks up, spreading his arm over the back of the couch as he looks back over it at them. “Nah, ‘m good.”

“You sure?” Bitty says. “Is there something I can make for you?” He starts to unzip his jacket.

Parse laughs a little. “Nah, not supposed to eat for like 12 hours before the surgery, and I’m giving it a few extra hours to be safe. ‘sides, I’m already stuffed full of cinnamon rolls.”

“Oh, okay,” Bitty says. He shoots Jack another look.

Jack shrugs.

Bitty puts his hands on his hips.

 _Oh_ , Jack realizes. “Do you need a ride tomorrow?”

Parse shakes his head, turning back to his laptop. “Got a car scheduled to pick me up. ‘m sure you’ve got shit to be doing.”

Yes, he does. “You sure?”

“Positive,” Parse says. “Go eat 2,000 calories of lean protein, dollface, I’ll be fine.” He tips his head back and grins at them upside-down. “Though the mother-henning is equally cute on both of you.”

Bitty giggles.

Jack throws a wooden spoon at his head.

“Jack!” Bitty says, and goes to rescue it. He’s probably named it, Jack thinks.

 

 

Parse comes into Jack’s room that night with a queer look on his face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Jack looks up from his history reading. “Something wrong?”

“I, uh,” Parse says. “Your roommate is naked. Why is your roommate naked?”

Jack starts laughing.

 

 

In the morning, Parse is gone when Jack gets back from his run. But his stuff is all still there, and Jack isn’t sure what to make of that.

 

 

Between classes, Jack goes with Bitty to the SciLi café to study. Studying, for Bitty, involves a lot of Twittering.

Jack doesn’t take much notice until he happens to glance over Bitty’s shoulder and sees all the stalkery paparazzi posts and photos outside the hospital, with flashes of a blurry Parse getting out of a black Town Car, the front brim of his cap covering most of his face.

Jack scowls.

Bitty quickly puts his phone down.

“It’s fine,” Jack says. “I just hate…” He waves a hand, “that.”

“It seems pretty invasive,” Bitty says. “Poor guy. Must be used to it, though, playing in Vegas.” He takes a sip of his Chai mocha latte, which he swears tastes better than it sounds. “How’s he taking the injury? Doesn’t seem like the type to talk about it much…”

“He’s pretty broken up about it,” Jack says. “Don’t think he slept much last night. Kept fidgeting.”

Bitty coughs.

“You okay?” Jack pats his back. “Need water?”

“No,” Bitty manages. “All good.”

 

 

Parse is back by mid-afternoon, in the same walking boot but missing the crutches. He’s halfway up the gravel path when Jack opens the front door and spots him, and they both freeze for a second.

“How’d it go?” Jack says.

“Fine,” Parse says. “Out for six weeks – looks like I’ll miss the rest of the season, as expected.” He works his jaw like he would if he were chewing on his mouth guard.

“They’ll make the playoffs,” Jack says. “Your record, only have to win about two-thirds of the rest at worst.”

Parse nods.

“You headed back soon, then?” Jack asks, glad that his customary monotone so effectively feigns nonchalance.

“Nah, got a check up in two weeks, Coach says I might as well stay out here,” Parse says. “If that’s, uh –”

“It’s fine,” Jack says.

“Cool,” Parse says. He tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, like he always does – only this time, he almost unbalances, unaccustomed to the curve of the boot. Only Jack’s quick reflexes keep him from toppling over backwards.

“Thanks,” Kent says, with a sheepish smile. It’s a really good look on him. “Where you headed?”

“Practice,” Jack says. He hesitates. “Want to come?”

Parse opens his mouth, then tilts his head to the side. “Yeah,” he says. “If that’s…”

Jack nods. “It’s fine.”

 

 

Kent sits through practice on the bench wearing a strangely blank expression, his eyes contemplative as he watches them run drills. But Jack knows Kent – knows Kent the way Kent once knew him – and he knows what thoughts are whirring behind those grey eyes.

It pisses him off.

No, they’re not NHL level. They’re not AHL level either, or even QMJHL – They’re a small liberal college team, cut them some slack. There _is_ a reason Jack plays with them, though, so Kent can shove his elitist, condescending –

He skates up in front of Kent while Coach is directing the D-men into their drill formation. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Kent says.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Kent says, hotter.

“You didn’t –”

“Fuck, Zimms, you can’t stop me from thinking you deserve better than this,” Kent says – at least he keeps his voice down. “Control whatever other parts of – your life that you can, but you can’t change my mind on this one.”

“You have no idea what it means to deserve something good,” Jack says, and skates off.

Every time he looks over after that, Kent is watching him.

 

 

They all watch the Aces-Sharks game piled up on the green couch that night.

Chowder is extremely disappointed when the Sharks lose, but that’s still better than the way Kent got all flinty-eyed and tense when the Sharks put up a quick two points early in the first. He texts his team afterwards, smiling when they hassle him good-naturedly about bailing right when things are getting good.

His _NHL team_. Of which he’s the _captain_. Jack can’t imagine what it’s like, and yet – the idea doesn’t terrify him as much as it once would have.

 

 

“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?” Kent says that night, as they climb into bed.

“No,” Jack says, rolling away from him, legs curled up.

“What, then?” Kent says. “You’ve been blowing me off all evening. Want me to take it back?”

“No.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that anyway. Some of the guys are pretty good, with a little more –”

Jack huffs.

“Then _what_?”

Jack pulls the blankets over to him – maybe a bit too hard, because Kent gives a surprised noise and nearly slams into Jack’s back before he catches himself. “I don’t want you saying anything you don’t mean.”

“Oh, that’s fucking –”

“Go to sleep.”

“Does it go all the way back to that?” Parse rips the blankets back off him. “Is this really about –“

“I’m tired, I want to –”

“You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?” Jack can imagine the look on Parse’s face, for all that he’s facing away. The blazing heat in those grey eyes. “Five fucking years, and I –”

“ _Go to sleep_.”

Parse slams his fist into something, hopefully the wall. The lack of books falling means the collision probably missed his desk. “Okay, yeah, maybe I didn’t mean it the first time, but –”

“I’m over it.”

“Bullshit, you’re so not!” Kent grabs his shoulder and rolls him over. “If you were over it, you’d forgive me for it.”

“I am,” Jack says, starting to get a little heated himself. “Like you said, it’s been five years.”

“Then tell me straight up, to my face – are you over it?”

Jack frowns. “Are _you_?”

Kent laughs grimly. “Does it look like I’m over it? Does anything about this situation look like – do you see where I am right now?”

Jack suddenly realizes that they are no longer talking about that ill-conceived _I love you_ from five years ago.

“I mean, why do you think I came here last Christmas? You think I –”

“Shut up.”

“And now you’re avoiding me again, you enormous pussy, because _that’s_ worked out so well for both of us in the –”

And then Jack kisses him, because it shuts him up, because he’s not a pussy, because years down the road and neither of them has gotten over each other at all. Because he pushed Kent away at the Epikegster and – well, he doesn’t regret that, but there are a lot of things that could have gone differently on that night.

And then Kent kisses back.

 

 

“Jack, Jack, Zimms, oh my god, yes,” Kent is babbling, one hand fisted in Jack’s hair, trembling with the effort not to buck up into Jack’s mouth.

“You are so loud,” Jack says, half-laughing, and moves his mouth over Kent’s cock, light and quick.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” Kent moans, and Jack considers stuffing a pillow in his mouth.

He uses his fingers instead, shoving two between Kent’s lips. Either Kent is less cautious in Vegas clubs than he knew or it’s like riding a bike, but Kent sucks them down without missing a beat, tonguing messily between them, saliva slicking his chin.

It’s hot. Of course. Everything about Kent is hot.

Including, unfortunately, the noises he makes, which is why it’s such a shame to silence him. “Zms,” he mumbles. “C’ _mon_.”

Jack stops teasing, because he can’t remember the last time he – well, yes he can. Five years ago. He sucks him down, bobbing his head over his cock and taking him just a bit deeper every time. Kent matches his rhythm on his fingers – and wow, those must have a nerve connecting directly to his dick, because – _crisse._

He still knows this body better than he knows his own. Knows how to swirl his tongue to make Kent whimper, to keep his hand tight right at the base, to pull off when he starts to move his hips like _that_ to keep him right on the edge. Knows that after he does this a few times Kent will start to tremble and plead in a hoarse, broken voice that hits Jack right in the gut.

Knows that there’s nothing hotter in the world than Kent being so far-gone he forgets every word he knows except for Jack’s name, spilling from his lips like the headiest liquor.

“Please, Jack!” Kent says, and, well, it’s good to give positive reinforcement for being polite, right?

Jack hums tonelessly as he takes Kent down, swallowing the thick saliva that’s pooling in the back of his throat, and Kent’s _gone_ , just like that, easy as always. Jack had forgotten this taste, but now he remembers all too well. He never did mind the bitterness.

“Christ, Jack,” Kent gasps out, dragging him up and scrabbling to drive his fingers down the waistband of his boxer briefs. “You know how unfair it is, to be sleeping next to you with your ass all –“ He groans, to demonstrate the unfairness of this situation.

“So loud,” Jack says, overwhelmed as Kent gets his fingers around his dick and twists just right, and oh –

Kent still knows his body better than he does. Funny, how that works.

 

 

“Phone’s ringing,” Jack mumbles, in the morning. “Turn it off.”

“Fuck, it is too early for this,” Kent says, grabbing for his phone and holding it to his ear. “Cam, this better be good.”

Jack climbs out of bed and starts to dress for his run.

“Boston, you know that. I – You called the hotel?”

Jack looks over and sees Kent’s arm slung over his face, elbow covering his eyes. He smiles.

“Nope, definitely still in Boston. … Does it matter? I’m not taking any in-person interviews until I get the boot off. … No, phone would be okay. But only the non-douchebags, I’m not talking to fucking Cassidy again. … Yeah, I remember, you’re on my side, but I – Hey, hang on a sec.”

Jack looks back. Kent’s propped up on one elbow, covering the mouthpiece of his phone with his hand. Jack arches an eyebrow.

“Bring back one of those chocolate twisty things Bitty made last night when you come back up,” Kent says. “Or two.”

Of course. Jack shakes his head and leaves.

“I’m trying to keep up my weight!” Kent calls after him, then his voice smooths out again. “Yes, Cam, I’m listening. … No, no Skype interviews either.”

 

 

“It’s quite obviously Daenerys.”

“It’s Jon.”

“Daenerys.”

“Jon.”

“I concede that Jon is Azor Ahai, but Daenerys is _clearly_ The Prince That Was Promised.”

“They’re the same person!”

“Says Melisandre, but it’s debatable. Anyway, it’s all there – salt and smoke, stars bleeding, dragons from stone –“

“The Prince and Azor Ahai are the same –”

“Crisse,” Jack says, slamming open the door. “You have your own room, must you be here?” he snaps to Ransom and Holster.

Only it’s not Ransom and Holster.

“I don’t,” Kent says. “And Ransom’s Skyping his sister in the attic so we figured we’d –”

“Plus Bitty’s hoarding the Swedish fish, uncool,” Holster says, popping two in his mouth.

“And you can’t do this in the living room because…?”

Holster looks up at him, all big-eyed innocence. “I’m studying for a test, and the frogs are playing Mario Kart. Too distracting.”

“You’re not studying.”

“Yes I am,” Holster says.

“I’m helping,” Kent adds, holding up a wad of flashcards.

Jack rubs his temples. “Does Bitty know you’re here?” One last-ditch attempt.

It flops. “Duh,” Holster says. “He’s the one who told us to –”

“Ooh, dick move, bro,” Kent says. “Let the record state that I didn’t throw the guy providing us with his room, his candy, and his music under the bus.”

Jack looks to the little purple BlueTooth speaker, playing a song he is embarrassingly proud to recognize – Funkytown or Upward Funk Town or something. Well, he recognizes it enough.

 _“Anyway_ ,” Kent says. “All the foreshadowing points at Jon being Azor Ahai. It just makes sense.”

“Then what’s Lightbringer?”

“The Night’s Watch, duh,” Kent says. “And another thing!”

When Jack climbs into the attic with his history book, Ransom waves him onto the couch without missing a beat of his conversation with his sister.

 _Christ_.

 

 

“Thanks for your help,” Bitty says to Jack. “You make a great sous chef.”

“Do they call people who work in bakeries chefs?” Shitty asks, wandering through and grabbing a cooling tart off the rack.

“Yes,” Bitty says, then frowns. “No? I… Wait, um, do they? But what else would they be…? Hmm.”

“You broke him,” Jack tells Shitty. “No more tarts for you.”

“Aw shit,” Shitty says.

Jack takes off his apron and hangs it on the little hook to the left of the fridge. “Have you seen Kent?”

“Sorry, not since this morning,” Bitty says.

“Nope,” Shitty says, and cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Parse?”

Someone yells something unintelligible from the living room.

“What?” Jack says.

“What?” Bitty says, pulling his head out from the fridge.

“What?” Shitty calls into the living room.

“Kent Parson, in the basement, with the hockey stick,” Ransom says, poking his head into the kitchen. “Ooh, tarts.”

“Oh, so Parse is the murderer?” Bitty says.

“Who’s Parse murdering?” Nursey says, picking this moment to wander in.

“Chowder,” Ransom says. “Yes/no on the tarts?”

“Yes,” Bitty says.

“Why is Parse murdering Chowder?”

“Bring them some tarts,” Bitty says, handing Jack a plate of six.

“Murderers don’t get tarts,” Shitty says, taking two off the plate, which Bitty promptly replaces with more.

Jack goes to investigate the crime scene.

Chowder blocks a shot just as Jack descends the stairs, and the puck ricochets off a pipe with a worryingly loud clang. He’s in just half his gear, the mask and the chest protector and the leg pads and the blocker and glove, so Kent’s taking the shots slow, not whipping off the one-timer that Jack knows he’s capable off. Chowder’s got the collapsible shinny net behind him.

“So you’re telling me this winter was –” Kent is saying.

“Yeah, you got off easy,” Chowder says. “You’re just seeing the, like, leftovers. It was brutal. Every single week it would snow another foot!” There’s a beat pause as Kent takes another shot that goes in high glove side. “Okay, I thought it was pretty awesome.”

“Sounds bitchin’,” Kent says. “So that’s when you –”

“Yeah, she normally runs outdoors, but she had to use the treadmill because of the snow.”

“Right, right.” Kent thinks for a while. “Kay, far be it for me to say I understand girls at all, but –”

Jack snorts.

Kent looks up. “Got something to share with the class, Mr. Jack’s-a-dick Zimmerbatch?”

“Women, not girls,” Jack says. “It’s diminutive. Tart?”

“Ooh!” Chowder says, clomping over in those giant pads.

Kent rolls his eyes. “Anyway, sounds to me like she’s trying to ask you to prioritize her without saying the words, because she knows deep-down she can’t ask to take precedence over hockey.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Fuck if I know, that’s a rough gig, buddy,” Kent says, and whips off a few quick shots into the net now that Chowder is away from it. Each shot hits the top corner of the net in the exact same place. No wonder he was the leading goal scorer in the league last year.

Chowder watches him with wide-eyed awe.

Jack kind of knows how he feels. A little bit.

 

 

It can’t last. He knew it all long, that it would never last. It’s been five years since Jack knew the meaning of the term ‘easy’ when it came to Kent Parson.

Jack walks up the stairs and turns the corner. He raises his eyes and gives a start, startled to find the hallway occupied by a still figure. Opening his mouth to speak, he pauses.

Parse’s expression is grim as he looks into Jack’s room.

Jack swallows.

“Hey,” Parse said eventually. He doesn’t turn. It looks like he might be looking at Jack’s bed.

“Hey,” Jack says.

Parse doesn’t say anything more.

“You okay?”

“Peachy,” Parse says, a definite note of bitterness in his voice.

How did Jack not see this coming? How dumb is he?

“You sure?”

“I’m fine,” Kent snaps.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I can tell.”

Kent was never very good at poker. He always broke first. “You wanna talk?” he says. “Fine, let’s talk. Let’s get it all out – because you’re so good at confrontation, yeah.”

Jack ignores this. “So –”

“So what changed, Zimms?” Parse says, finally turning towards him, that fire in his eyes. “I haven’t been worth your time for five fucking years. You don’t answer my calls, my texts – you’ve kicked me out the last two times I’ve crossed the country to come see you.”

He advances on Jack, shaking with the intensity of his emotions. Jack falls back a step. He’s shaking too, mostly from how abruptly he’s been thrust into this emotional tornado. He’s sure there’s a reason this is coming up for Kent right now, though for the life of him, he can’t guess it.

“And now I’m injured and all of a sudden I’m good enough for you again?” Parse sneers. “I don’t need your fucking pity. Nothing’s changed, alright? So I busted my knee, so what? How come you give a shit now when you never have before?”

“Kenny,” Jack says, half pleading and half placating. He raises both hands.

Kent twists away. Now he’s the one retreating, and Jack follows him, anxiety and concern making his stomach roil. Parse _never_ backs off first.

“You can’t pretend this is okay,” Kent says, hands scrabbling blindly behind him, searching for some stability. He finds the wall and presses back into it. “You can’t tell me to fuck off for five _fucking_ years and then give me –“ He flaps his hand, “whatever this is because you’re trying to make yourself feel better! I might be pathetic, but I’m not that fucking pathetic, Jack Zimmermann.”

“Kenny, come on,” Jack says, his own anger flaring. “Don’t act like some kind of victim, you have your own motives for all of that.”

“I came because I miss you,” Kent says.

“You come because you _need_ me.”

Kent shoves up into Jack’s face. Jack always forgets how short Kent is, until moments like this come along. “I need you? I need you to go fuck yourself, you egotistical prick.”

“Tell me it’s not true.”

Kent swallows.

“Tell me.”

Kent looks down, that stupid cowlick flopping forward into his eyes. “No. I don’t need you. You haven’t let me need you, so I don’t.” He scowls. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Kenny…” Jack reaches forward.

He’s not sure what he was going for, and he doesn’t have a chance to find out, because Kent twists away from his grip and backs up. But he’s lost track of his bearings in their argument, and instead of the wall there to meet him, there’s only open air, as his heavy boot slips off the carpet onto the slick wood of the top stair.

Jack’s reflexes are just a hair too slow.

Their eyes meet as he falls back, Jack’s fingers grasping at the air where his arm was a moment ago. Add another one to the list of regrets.

Kent goes down _hard_ , his boot ricocheting off the narrow walls, body tumbling head over heels. Jack sees flashes of blond hair and flailing hands and then it’s over, abruptly silent after that racket, Kent sprawled in a heap at the foot of the stairs.

“Kent!” Jack says, and rushes down the stairs, reaching out.

“Fuck off!” Kent snaps, slapping his hand away. He scrambles to his feet, and it’s heart-wrenchingly pathetic – he needs both hands on the banister to drag himself up.

His lip is bleeding and his entire right forearm is scraped red and raw. He lost his hat in the fall, and his hair is disheveled in a way that would look cute in any other moment.

Jack looks up and sees Holster and Ransom staring from the green couch, mouths open. When he looks the other way, there’s Bitty peeking out of the kitchen. He has a smear of flour on his cheek and a look in his eyes that makes Jack certain he heard the whole thing.

“I think I need a ride to the hospital,” Kent says, face white with pain.

Jack doesn’t even try to offer.

 

 

Jack stations himself by Kent’s duffel bag all that afternoon, evening, night, and into the next morning. He skips his run, pretty sure that Kent would intentionally drop by when he was out to avoid this. For all that Kent claims Jack’s the one who hates confrontation, he sure as hell doesn’t like to stick around after being embarrassed.

But Kent doesn’t come. And missing his run makes Jack feel off-kilter and snappish, anxiety building up like a physical weight in his chest.

So he gets breakfast and goes to class like usual, and he doesn’t fidget but his eyes do flick to the clock more than usual.

Bitty texts towards the end of his second class. _Kent’s here packing his things. Should I do something???_

 _Is he okay_?

_Yep, the boot protected his knee. His arm’s in a splint tho :(._

A minute later, another text comes. _JACK I AM WATCHING HIM THROUGH A CRACK IN MY DOOR IF YOU WANT ME TO DO SOMETHING NOW IS THE TIME._

Jack looks at the clock and makes a decision. _Stall_ , he sends back, grabs his stuff, and slips out the door

Yes, skipping class is not helping the anxiety. But letting Kent leave like this would be so much worse.

 

 

He’s panting when he jogs up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and he knows Kent can hear him coming but where could he go? He wouldn’t try to go out the window with that boot on.

Wait, would he?

Jack moves a little faster, slamming open the door to his room.

“Whoa!” Parse says, moving back just in time to avoid a whack to the head. “Fuck, Zimms –”

“Nothing’s changed, alright?”

Kent’s face goes blank. He pulls himself up using Jack’s desk, slinging his duffel around one shoulder. “Well, dandy for me.”

“Parse –”

Kent puts on his hat. “Nice of you to wait to ship me back to Vegas. Could have just put me up in a hotel, you know, I –”

“Would you just –”

“Don’t act like I’m the one who –”

 _“Listen to me –_ ”

Kent’s lips twist. “It’s been a real blast from the –”

It’s too much. Kent’s too fucking much. Always has been. “Crisse de tabarnak de sacrament d'ostie d'câlisse,” Jack says, digging his hands into his hair. “I’m trying, Kent.”

Kent watches him in stone-faced silence.

Jack drags in a deep, shaky breath. “I am _trying_. If that’s never going to be enough, then tell me now, or tell me what I can do, but…”

“Try harder,” Kent says.

 _Be better_ , says that little voice in the back of Jack’s mind.

 _Shut up_ , Jack thinks back.

“Nothing has changed,” he says. “I have not had any… epiphanies.”

Kent crosses his arms. He’s giving Jack his faceoff glare. Like Jack hasn’t seen that before.

“But I’ve grown up. That happens when you break down,” Jack says. “You grow up. And I’ve had…” He gestures around, indicating the Haus and its residents – Shitty and Ransom and Holster and Bitty, each of them imparting a different lesson about how to live, how to be happy, how to not be such a fucking shitshow.

“Uh huh,” Kent says, not giving an inch.

“I wasn’t ready five years ago,” Jack says. “I’m ready now. I want to play pro. And you were always… Whether I’m playing with you or against you, I want you to be there.”

Kent works his jaw.

“And when you got hurt, it…” Jack says, and he takes in another deep breath. He feels like he’s been skating suicides for a half hour, like his heart is working too hard, not enough oxygen in his blood. “You know, you push, but you’re always there.”

“So you’re saying…”

“I need you to be there,” Jack says, because Kent needs to hear the words and maybe some part of Jack needs to say them. “With me, against me… doesn’t matter. I just –“

“Yeah,” Kent says, and finally, _finally_ , he thaws, starts to smile.

Relieved, Jack smiles back. “This MCL thing scared the crap out of me.” And oh look, there he is, making about himself again.

But maybe Kent doesn’t mind that. Maybe Kent wants his issues to be about Jack, and Jack’s issues to be about him, and maybe that’s codependent but Jack’s not the only one who’s been going to a therapist for years.

“It’s just a minor tear,” Kent says. “But the doc mentioned if it had been, you know, Bobby Orr’s time, pre-arthroscopic surgery, this kind of shit could have taken me out of the game. And I fucking love this game, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything, you know that –”

“I do,” Jack says.

“But it might me wonder, you know, hypothetically, if you’d like me any better if I weren’t playing against you,” Kent says. He looks down. “If you’d forgive me for going first.”

“That is the dumbest thing you’ve said in my presence and I’m not going to lower myself to answer it,” Jack says.

“Understood,” Kent says, and now he smiles for real, big and bright like Jack realizes in retrospect he hasn’t seen for five years.

“Are you still leaving?” Jack says.

Kent nods. “Turns out Coach wants me out there early.”

“Oh.”

“But I’ll be back in a few weeks for my check-up,” he says. “Maybe I could…?”

Jack curls a hand around his jaw, warm and familiar, and Kent leans in. “Don’t call a car,” Jack says, resting their foreheads together, eyes closed.

He can feel Kent’s smile against his lips. “Sounds good to me.”


End file.
